


Crawley & Crawley

by GraceBe



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crimes & Criminals, F/M, Family Drama, Gen, Love Triangles, Murder Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:33:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22954129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraceBe/pseuds/GraceBe
Summary: Modern AU with the whole ensemble, but the focus is on Violet, Isobel & Mary and their respective men.The untimely death of Irina Kuragin causes more murder and mayham for the established law office "Crawley & Crawley".
Relationships: Charles Carson/Elsie Hughes, Cora Crawley/Robert Crawley, Isobel Crawley/Richard "Dickie" Grey, Mary Crawley/Matthew Crawley, Violet Crawley/Igor Kuragin
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	1. Wind of Change

London - Present Day

It was raining cats and dogs when Mary Crawley exited South Kensington tube station. Squeezing herself through an assembly of Japanese tourists she cursed the English spring weather, when she saw the countless puddles on the precinct. A second later she also cursed her mobile phone, when the song "Never met a girl like you before" by Edwin Collins reached her ear. She ignored the umbrella in her bag and answered the call. It was her father, Robert Crawley, Senior Partner of _Crawley & Solicitors, _and she already knew why he was calling.

"I'm on my way," she barked into the phone, before Robert could phrase a greeting.

"It's about time," he said. "He's already here. We're waiting for you, Mary."

How she hated the underlying, accusing tone in his voice. As if she wouldn't know herself that she was late!

"I know, I know. I'll be there in five minutes."

Mary had known when she had climbed out of bed this day would be bad, but it got worse by the second. Her umbrella didn't want to open and she was almost hit by a car when she crossed Cromwell Road. By the time she reached her office, her mood was down the drain like the rain was running down the busy streets of London.

She entered the law office without greetings and marched into her own office. Her secretary, Anna Smith, was behind Mary's desk, a pile of files in her hands.

"Anna, be a dear and get this dry somehow," Mary said, as she handed her the soaked, black coat.

"Yes, Ma'am. They are in the 'oval'," Anna informed her with a small smile.

The 'oval', as they called it, was the biggest conference room in the lawyer's office. Actually, it looked more like a library than anything else. The room was located in the heart of the firm. It was packed with book shelves along the walls and elegant stucco at the ceiling. Mary's grandfather and founder of the law practise found it befitting to name the room after one of the world's biggest centre of power. Her grandmother on the other hand hated the expression. Mary was convinced Violet just disliked the name, because her late husband had loved it - and because it sounded too American for Violet Crawley's ears.

After a quick gaze in the mirror, Mary brushed a brown, long strand of her hair behind her ear, drew a deep breath, and decided to enter the lion's den. On her way, she met Elsie Hughes, the head clerk of the company. She was a good looking woman in her mid-fifties, well-liked, and what was almost more important, well-respected and highly competent. Mary truly liked Mrs Hughes for her nonsense attitude, but wasn't always sure the sentiment was mutual.

"Good morning, Mrs Hughes," Mary nodded, as she passed her.

The head clerk returned the greeting without a smile, but Mary was too focused on the heavy wooden door in front of her to notice it. In there the future was waiting. The wind of change was blowing inside the oval office and the whole company. At least that was what she was told. The question was, what part she was allowed to play in this brave new world.

* * *

Just after the door had closed behind Mary, Sarah O'Brien raised her head. Her desk was in the perfect spot to watch everyone and everything that was going in the office. It was right in the middle of the antechamber, where Mrs Hughes, Anna Smith and Sarah herself and Daisy, the typist had their working space.

Knowing what was going on was always important, but in times like these it was vital. Since Patrick Crawley, the cousin and associate of Robert Crawley had been arrested for murder six weeks ago, the atmosphere in the office was irritating to say the least. The public image of the law office was highly damaged. Important clients had left and the tabloids were still eating them alive, questioning the family's every move. With every detail of the case that got exposed, the family, and therefore the office, suffered. Sarah was sure it was just a matter of time, before the first employees got sacked.

How could a family of lawyers, criminal lawyers for that matter, couldn't see they had a dangerous criminal in their midst? How could he hide from them that he didn't only kill his own father, but also another associate to cover up the desastrious outcome of a financial gamble that went wrong? These were the questions that not only the press wanted answers for. Sarah herself wondered how this could happen and why she, a good judge of character in general, didn't see through Patrick Crawley herself.

"Care for a break?" Thomas Barrow, a new intern, asked. He showed her the package of cigarettes. "I doubt they'll come out any time soon."

Sarah checked her watch. "Why not? It's not that we're drowning in work these days." Over the last couple of days the telephone only rang when the tabloids wanted another interview, or worse wanted them to confirm another rumour concerning the 'Soliciting Killer', as they had baptised him.

Sarah sighed and snatched her cigarette case out of her bag. It was time for a break.

* * *

"Very well, Matthew! Welcome to our office!" Robert rose from his chair at the table that had always reminded Mary of the Round Table of King Arthur and shook the hand of the young man next to him.

Matthew Crawley, the saviour, the messiah, Mary thought mockingly, but clapped anyway, like the rest of the assembly. Next to her sat her grandmother, Violet Crawley, an impressive lady in her seventies. Violet was Mary's role model though Mary would never admit that to anyone but herself.

Next to Violet sat Charles Carson who had been with the company as long as Mary could remember. He had been a solicitor in the office even before Robert had joined the company right after he had finished his studies in Oxford. Next to Carson Mary's sister Edith smiled up to the fair-haired messiah, perhaps because she was happy that someone else than Mary had become a partner in the office. Edith was a journalist, not a lawyer. Mary suspected that Edith was only present because she wanted to see if Mary suffered a breakdown while the rest of the family welcomed Matthew Crawley into their midst. The only other person in the room who wasn't a lawyer was Cora Crawley. Mary's mother always said she felt terrible misplaced in a family of lawyers and Mary silently agreed with her. But that never kept the mother of three from attending important events in the office – as long as her busy schedule, consisting of charity events and fashion shows, allowed it.

The one family member who was missing was Sybil, the youngest Crawley sister who had just started her studies in California - far away from family. Sybil had only agreed to join the family's profession if she were allowed to pick her university by herself. Robert had agreed and Mary would never forget the disappointment on his face when he had realized his little girl wanted to study abroad. Violet's face had been covered with red spots as soon as she learned that Sybil would move to 'LaLa-Land' as the matriarch called it.

"So, what will we call ourselves with our latest addition?" Mary asked, instantly earning a dark gaze from her grandmother. "Crawley, Crawley & Solicitors?"

Matthew Crawley seemed a bit irritated for a moment, but he sobered up quickly. "I don't think that'll be necessary. We're all family after all, aren't we?" He smiled kindly at Mary who already disliked him more for his politeness.

"I think that's wise suggestion," Violet said. "There's no need for irritation. That's only used by people who can't convince the public with common sense."

"Thank you… Mother," Robert cleared his throat. "Matthew, I think your office is ready for you. I asked Mrs Hughes to take care of everything and there's Mr Molseley who we thought could be your assistant. I assure you, he's very efficient."

Matthew nodded. "I'm sure he is. Let me thank you all for the warm welcome. I'm pleased to be here!"

"Said the rabbit caught in the headlights," Violet uttered, as she rose from her chair. With a quick wave of her hand, she ordered Mary who was about to leave to stay. "We need to talk," she said lowly. Mary obeyed reluctantly and sank back into her chair.

When everyone was gone, Violet turned to her oldest grandchild. "Well done, my dear."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Mary returned swiftly.

"Of course, you do! This isn't the end, you know. One day you'll be the head of this firm."

"Who says I want to be head of this firm?" Mary returned. "As far as I am concerned my dear cousin can grow old in here."

Violet shook her head. "You're such a bad liar, but I appreciate the effort. Just one piece of advice from someone who's been around the block a few times."

Mary listened, but her right eyebrow was crooked in bored amusement. "Don't become Matthew's enemy. One day you might need him."

"Is that all?"

"Not quite. I need your help with something…." Violet's voice trailed off and she sat down next to her granddaughter. Now Mary was interested. As far as Mary remembered Violet had never asked for anyone's help before. Realizing that she was about to experience a rare moment of confidence, the young woman straightened her back.

"Pray, what is it!"

"Well, it's complicated."

"Everything's complicated."

"Aren't you too young for that kind of sentiment?"

"I'm a Crawley, Granny. A Crawley and a lawyer. There's no such thing as too young for people like us."

Violet sighed. "I'm afraid that's true."

* * *

After her conversation with Mary, Violet left the office and took a cab to pay her friend and in-law cousin Isobel Crawley an unannounced visit. Isobel co-owned a practise for psychiatrie and psychotherapie with Doctor Richard Clarkson in Harley Street. Violet considered modern psychology a dispensable form of art, but she admired Isobel for her success. She had made a life and a career of her own while she, Violet, was the widow of one of London's most famous lawyers who had given her up her own profession when she became pregnant with her oldest daughter.

Since Isobel was busy with a patient, Violet waited in the antechamber. She tried to focus on a magazine, but her mind was occupied with another matter. She hoped she hadn't misplaced her confidence when she had asked Mary to look into her personal matters. Letting someone in, even when they belonged to the family, was always a risk.

Once Isobel and her patient came out, she rose. Her hip protested more it usually did, but she had to face the fact that she wasn't getting any younger.

Isobel saw her patient, a young woman in her twenties off, and went back to Violet.

"Violet! What a surprise!" Isobel looked at her watch. "Is the meeting already over?"

"It's all said and done," Violet said and followed Isobel into her office. It was a modern room, with grey and white furniture. Two heavy, comfortable leather armchairs stood near a big window. Isobel offered Violet one of the armchairs, but she declined. "My hip is not well. I think I prefer a real chair," she said and chose the chair in front of Isobel's glass desk.

"As you wish. Coffee?"

"No, thank you. The doctor ordered less caffeine."

"Tea?"

"No. I was wondering if you are free for luncheon?" Violet didn't like Isobel's office. It was too cold for her taste and she always had the feeling of being scrutinized. The last thing she needed was an analysis by her best friend on her turf. It was annoying enough when Isobel tried to treat her outside these rooms.

Isobel sat down. "Weren't we supposed to have dinner tonight?"

Violet hesitated, "Well, yes… but…"

"Did something go wrong this morning? Was there any bad blood at the meeting?" Isobel asked alarmed.

Violet shook her head. "It's not the meeting. I can't guarantee for any bad blood between Mary and Matthew in the future though. Mary's deeply hurt by it all."

"Well, but isn't Robert the one who made the decision?" Isobel shrugged. "If Mary's angry her anger should be directed at her father not Matthew."

"Why don't we leave this particular argument to the young?" Violet asked. "Mary and Matthew are both highly professional individuals. They will work it out."

Isobel wasn't so convinced, but decided to leave the matter alone. It was obvious that Violet paid her this rare visit for another reason.

"So, why are you here?" Isobel asked.

"I'm here because I'm hungry and eating alone is boring."

Isobel wasn't fooled by Violet's sheepish smile. "Weren't we supposed to have dinner tonight?" she repeated her question.

"My plans have changed."

Isobel tilted her head. "Did they? It's just a wild guess, but is it possible that your change of plans has anything to do with this?"

Isobel opened her drawer and pulled out today's morning issue of 'The Times'. "The mysterious death of diplomat's wife Irina Kuragin under investigation," she read aloud.

"So?" Violet asked with a shrug.

"Igor is in trouble, isn't he?"

"How's Dickie?" Violet shot back. "Still married to that awful hag?"

Isobel narrowed her. "Touché."

"So where are you going for lunch?" Violet asked, pleased she had won this little battle.

* * *

Lost in her thoughts Mary sat on a bar chair in her favourite after work place near Covent Garden and stirred her martini with a toothpick. Her mood was still as bad as it had been in the morning. That her father had overlooked her to make Matthew a partner of the family's firm was just the tip of the iceberg. Robert rejecting Mary was just a symptom of the problem. Mary knew Robert had lost his faith in her since she had lost a big case last fall. She had made a mistake, a mistake no solicitor should commit. She had become sexually involved with a client and the tabloids had got wind of it. Mary had known from the beginning it was reckless and stupid - and had ignored her own good advice. Edith, her younger sister, who worked for the very same newspaper that had gone publish with the story, had done nothing to prevent the scandal nor had she given Mary or anyone else a warning. The mess Patrick had created for the family couldn't cover her failure - at least not in Roberts' eyes.

The only supportive figure in her family had been her grandmother. Violet, as crusty and difficult she could be, had always had a soft spot for Mary and today Violet had asked for her help. It was an unusual request, but, of course, Mary had agreed to do whatever Violet asked of her.

And so she found herself at the bar, waiting for a new, potential client. Violet hadn't been very precise in her description of the problem. Mary knew the issue involved the death of Irina Kuragin who was the late wife of Russian diplomat. Around Christmas she had been found dead in her husband's apartment in the Russian embassy. Many myths ranked around her death. Depending on the source Irina's death was a suicide, an accident, or murder.

"Are you Miss Crawley?"

She turned her head. The man standing next to her was about her age and one of the most attractive people she had ever encountered. He was dark haired, exotic, and his smile was ravishing.

"I am." She slit down the bar chair and shook his hand.

"Kemal Pamuk," he introduced himself. "My office told me I could find you here."

"So this is about the death of Irina Kuragin?" Mary asked, as they sat down at a table in the corner.

"It is," Pamuk confirmed. "As you can understand her death is a very delicate matter. Her husband is one of Russia's top diplomats. He cannot be linked to her unfortunate demise in any way."

"Well, he already is," Mary argued. "The papers are full of it."

"And it's your job to change that." Pamuk smiled. "Can you do that?"

"I'll do whatever I can," Mary said and raised her glass for a toast. She smiled at Kemal Pamuk, but the smile soon froze on her face. Behind Kemal she saw a man entering the bar. It was Matthew Crawley. He stopped when he recognized Mary and raised his hand to greet her. However, when he saw that she wasn't alone, he froze and turned away.

"Is something wrong?" Pamuk asked curiously when he noticed Mary's change of mood.

"No," she said curtly. "Everything's fine. Shouldn't we have dinner to discuss the details?"

"Why not? I know a good place, not far from here."

"Perfect."

The two finished their drinks and on their way out, Mary stopped at Matthew's bar chair. She looked at the menu in his hand and said, "Have a nice evening. The martini they serve around here is perfect."

Puzzled by Mary's approach, Matthew blushed. "Thanks for the tip." He nodded at Kemal Pamuk and watched him and Mary as they left the bar.

*****tbc*****


	2. You ruin me

Matthew was running as if the devil was chasing him. He usually exercised in the morning, before he went to work, but tonight he found the only way to get rid off his restlessness was running until his lungs started burning and he was too tired to think. His favourite route led him along the River Thames. He passed other joggers, pedestrians, cyclists, and boats with tourists who enjoyed themselves with drinks and party music. Their laughter and party music reached his ears while he finally reached the stage of exhaustion. He stopped near the National Theatre in South Bank and bent forward, unsure if he was going to be sick.

He checked his smart watch. Ten miles. Not his best result, but at least he had stopped feeling like killing anyone.

Mary. She was the thorn in his side, the one that made it hard to breath, the reason was angry with himself and the world. He had hoped his return to London would be different. He knew he was fill-in for the fallen Patrick Crawley, but just as Patrick, he was family. He deserved his place in the office and the family.

His mother had encouraged his move to finally become partner in the law practise and Robert was doing his best to make him feel welcome while the rest was hesitant to welcome him. Charles Carson had looked at him as if he were a black, fat bug and Mary had almost completely ignored him. He should have known she would feel overlooked, but, as always where Mary was concerned, he had hoped for another outcome.

Physically exhausted and heavily breathing he sank on one of the benches and stared at the dark river.

It was time to accept that they had messed it up. He and Mary had thrown away their chance of happiness a long time ago as students in Oxford. Wasn't it time to move on?

He was back in London, back in the office, but that didn't mean they had to be bitter about their past. Life was full of changes and this was just another one.

While his pulse was slowing down, he made a decision. He would talk to Mary first thing in the morning. It was time to move past old regrets.

* * *

When Violet returned to her white pillared house in South Kensington it was almost time for dinner. After the cold and rainy beginning of the day, the weather had changed for the better and rewarded the Londoners with a beautiful sunset.

Violet, however, wasn't in the mood to admire the evening light. She was waiting for a visitor, the one who used to arrive when she didn't expect him. This morning he had woken her up with one of his rare telephone calls. He had announced himself for tonight, had asked for an appointment with a lawyer she trusted, and after Violet had read the morning paper she had started to understand the haste behind it all. It wasn't like him to call for her help, which could only mean he was desperate. Desperate was the one adjective that never came to her mind when she thought about Igor Kuragin, Russian Ambassador and problem solver extraordinaire. He was the man who solved problems not the man who needed help fixing them.

A bit mawkish Violet remembered her first meeting with Igor almost forty years ago. While Violet had never cared much for a vacation abroad, her late husband Patrick had loved travelling. They had spent many vacations at the Cote d'Azur and in 1981, their first trip without the children, they had attended a cocktail party in Nice. The weather had been obnoxiously hot and the champagne already warm and stale when she first laid her eyes on the elegant Russian with the dark, roaring voice. Violet who had always considered herself to be level-headed and rational, had fallen for the man before she knew what had happened to her. She had never believed in love at first sight and though she considered her husband the companion for life, she had found herself unable to resist Igor Kuargin and the buoyant lust he awoke in her. Their affair had started during those summer days in the south of France and it lasted until this day. Over the decades there had been times when their relationship had cooled off, but in the end one of them had always sought the other one out. After her husband's death over ten years ago Violet had finally given up her attempts to end their affair and Igor had pulled some strings to be appointed in London to be closer to her.

Tonight she would see him for the first time in almost two months and she was as nervous as this was their first secret rendezvous.

Her housekeeper, Gladys Denker, had already left and Violet was glad she didn't have to make small talk with her nosy servant. As efficient as Gladys was, she was also a busybody. As ordered the housekeeper had prepared dinner for two which stood in the fridge. The only thing missing was the bottle of red wine Violet had picked from her not so humble wine cellar. Disappointed she wrinkled her forehead and when she heard someone clearing their throat behind her, she knew where the wine was.

"Why did I give you a key?" She wondered aloud.

"You once said it's easier for me to get into the house without being seen," Igor Kuragin answered dryly. She turned. He leaned against the door frame, sipping the wine. "An excellent vintage as always."

"I'm glad you're already enjoying yourself!"

"Don't worry. I left a glass for you and brought some more."

He went slowly towards her and she took the glass from him. "You surprise me."

"Do I?" he chuckled. "How's that?"

"I haven't heard from you since Christmas," she said, trying to sound not as hurt as she was. There was no doubt that Irina's death and its consequences were the reasons for his temporary absence in her life.

"I know I've shamefully neglected you," he said. "And I'm sorry for it, but it couldn't be helped. I had to keep my distance."

She returned the glass and he emptied it without explaining himself any further.

"You sound more like an afraid husband and not like a widowed one." She meant to mock him, but failed miserably. Suddenly weary he placed his glass on the marble worktop. "I've been afraid," he admitted. "But not for me or my reputation."

"What are you talking about? Don't make this mysterious to distract me."

"I'm not trying to distract you. I'm serious. Irina's death was no a suicide and it certainly wasn't an accident. She was killed and the people who did it won't refrain from killing again to get what they want."

She felt cold. Igor was always blunt and never sugarcoated anything. It was part of what attracted her to him, but the cold seriousness in his voice shocked her.

"Did someone threaten you?"

"There was no need to threaten me," he said. "When I found Irina I knew who had killed her."

"Do you care to tell me more about it?" Violet longed for a large glass of alcohol - and for him to stay. "Or did you just want to drop off this bomb and run away again?"

He shook his head. "I don't want to run and I haven't told anyone where I am."

"So?"

He crossed the kitchen and and cupped her face with his strong, warm hands. It was a tender, yet possessive gesture that made her shiver. He kissed her longingly and she allowed herself to give in, fully accepting the fact that he probably wouldn't tell her the whole truth about Irina's death.

* * *

"Will you stay longer or do you care for a drink?" Isobel looked up from her file and looked at her watch. It was almost dark outside and it was later than she had expected. She took off her reading glasses and rubbed her tired eyes. Her companion Richard Clarkson was leaning against the door frame and smiled at her.

"I'm afraid I don't have time." She sighed and pointed at the file she had been reading. "Perhaps another time."

Richard shook his head and approached her desk. "You are working too much."

"No, I just shouldn't take excessive lunch breaks with Violet Crawley. I'm afraid it messed up my schedule for today."

"Are you sure you don't want a drink? I'm buying."

She smiled at him. It was the third time in two weeks he was asking to take her for an 'after work drink'. Under normal circumstances she would have agreed, but since she knew he wanted more than just a drink from her, she had to decline his invitation once more.

"Not today," she said, because she didn't know how to find the right words to tell that she wasn't interested in him as a man. He was a brilliant neurologist, a compassionate doctor, but not the man she wanted to share her private life with.

"All right." He was disappointed, but gave in. "I see you tomorrow."

"Good night," she said.

She watched Clarkson leaving and just as she wanted to return her attention to her file, she heard him clearing his throat.

"Isobel, there's a visitor for you." He sounded uncharacteristically cold and so she looked up. The visitor brought a smile to her face. It was no one else than Isobel's on and off lover Richard "Dickie" Merton. He hadn't returned any of her late calls and now he showed up in her office. She should be angry with him, but she saw him and her disappointment with him melted like snow in the sunshine.

"Dickie! What a surprise!"

As happy as she was to see him, his outward appearance was a shock. He was impeccably dressed as always, but the colour of his face reminded her about washed out linen and his grey eyes were surrounded by dark circles. His smile, though, was as genuine and loving as ever.

He pointed at the picnic basket on his arm. "I thought you might need dinner."

"How lovely!"

Richard Clarkson repressed a snore and turned to leave. "Good night then."

Once she was sure Clarkson was gone for good, Isobel crossed the room and wrapped her arms around Dickie's neck. He disposed of the basket and pressed her against him.

"I've missed you!" she said. "Why didn't you call me back?" She pulled back and caressed his pale cheeks with her thumbs.

"I know… , but there was so much to do and…"

"And what?"

He drew a deep breath, before he answered."I had to commit Ada into a psychiatric hospital. The boys were against it, of course, but there was no way we could keep her at home."

The news genuinely shocked her. Ada Merton, Dickie's wife, was a former patient of hers and she knew about her bleak diagnoses, but she hadn't expected this. "Oh no! When was that?"

"Yesterday." He took his hands into his. "She wanted to kill herself and when I tried to stop her, she tried to kill me. She was so confused that she thought I was a burglar. I had no choice but to commit her."

"Oh Dickie."

"I know I should have called you, but I didn't want to bother you. Ada's not your problem - at least not anymore."

She pushed him gently to one of the big armchairs. "She may not be my problem, but you need someone to talk to you as well. What did she do to you?"

"She got hold of a kitchen knife." He pulled up his sleeve and showed her the bandage on his left lower arm. "I was lucky, it was just a small wound."

"And what happens next?"

He shrugged. "I don't know."

She bit her lower lip. Ada Merton's mental health was the big issue in her and Dickie's relationship. His scruples to divorce a woman who was suffering from schizophrenic dementia were understandable. It didn't help that Isobel was the one who had made the diagnosis after Ada had consulted her right before she and Dickie had fallen in love with each other. Isobel had done the only right thing and had transferred Ada to another psychologist, but the transfer didn't help to diminish her feelings of guilt.

"I'm glad you're here," she said warmly. "I've missed you."

"I've missed you too."

"I called you, because I wanted to warn you."

"Warn me? Whatever for?" he asked puzzled.

"Matthew's living in my apartment until he has found himself a new place. I didn't want you to run into him."

"I see." He leaned backwards. "Is he still angry with you - or to say it more clearly - with me?"

"He's not angry… he's worried. He was a bit shocked to realize his mother is woman after all."

"Well, I can't blame him." He crooked a smile and took her hand. "I'm going to make this right, Isobel. One way or the other."

If she was honest, she wasn't so sure about that and she didn't want to think about it. She looked at picnic basket on the floor and changed the subject.

"Why don't we forget about all of this?" she asked. "I take it there is wine in there?"

He nodded. "All your favourites… Cheese, wine..."

She leaned over and brushed her lips over his. "And a blanket?" she whispered.

"Two blankets."

* * *

It was midnight when Mary looked into her bathroom mirror and wondered what she should do next. She had messed it up - once more and this time she was about to disappoint her grandmother, what was probably the worst scenarios of all. Violet had asked a simple favour of her and she had fucked it up.

"Fuck!" She stared at her reflection and punched it with her fist. The glass broke and finally she felt something like pain. The pain cleared her mind and she knew what to do next. Determined she wrapped a towel around her bleeding hand and went back inside her bedroom. The body of Kemal Pamuk lay in her sheets and didn't move.

She had taken Kemal Pamuk to her bed and now he was as dead as a doornail. Her mobile lay on the bedside table and started vibrating. Finally Anna was calling her back.

"I'm so sorry, Anna. I hope I didn't wake you up."

"No, you didn't. I was under the shower. What is it?"

Mary stared at the corpse in her bed and swallowed. "I need you to come over to my apartment. I know it's late, but it's an emergency."

One of the reasons why Mary liked Anna was that her assistant never asked unnecessary questions. She was quick, efficient, and knew when to shut up.

"I'm on my way," Anna said and hung up.

"Well, you're on your way out, aren't you?" Mary asked her dead lover and started to clean up her bedroom.

*********tbc*********


	3. Tom's Diner

The next morning Matthew woke up early. A quick glance at his mobile told him it was still early, but he remembered the task he had set himself the evening before and decided to start the day early. To his surprise he found his mother in the kitchen. She was already dressed and working at her laptop. He smiled when he saw how absorbed she was in her work. As long as he could remember his mother had always been full of energy and an almost annoying thirst for action.

"You're up early," he greeted her while he fished a mug out of a cupboard and filled it with fresh coffee.

"Of necessity," she answered. "I still have to prepare two sessions for today."

Matthew wrinkled his forehead. "Didn't you say you were working late last night?"

Isobel interrupted her quick typing and looked up from her screen. "I didn't know I was under surveillance."

He blushed. "You are not… but…" He was speechless. Before he had moved in with his mother he had never cared for how she spent her evenings and he had never asked her. It wasn't his business, though he wasn't happy with the fact that she had a relationship with a married man he was wise enough not to mention it. The one and only time they had argued about it was not something he wanted to be reminded of. In his opinion she deserved better, but he wasn't eager to discuss the matter any further- mostly because she liked to remind him about his own messed up love life.

"Forget it." Irritated by this strange conversation he turned to leave.

"A patient of mine was institutionalised. It messed up my schedule."

He stopped and turned to her. "I'm sorry." He didn't know what exactly he was sorry for. His mother took her profession seriously and every time a patient suffered, she suffered as well. He also hated to argue with her, especially when the reason for the argument was nothing but a silly misunderstanding.

She shrugged and avoided his eyes. "It happens - and never mind." Isobel finished her coffee and looked at her watch. "I have to go now. See you tonight?"

"Not sure. I'll text you later."

"Not necessary. I'll leave you some food in the fridge."

Isobel kissed her son's sheek and then she left. Matthew stayed behind and looked into his mug. Suddenly he felt alone and a little foolish. His coffee ended down the drain. It tasted too bitter.

* * *

Violet sat at her kitchen table and smoked a cigarette. She had nicked it from Igor's silver cigarette case that lay on the bedside table. He was still asleep and hadn't noticed her sneaking out. She enjoyed the silence of the early morning, before he woke up. She had never really liked being alone, but she wasn't a morning person and preferred to wake up in peace and without witnesses. It gave her the time to contemplate what Igor had told her about Irina's death the night before. Apparently the media didn't even know half of the story, which was a blessing. The question was how long the circumstances of her death could be kept a secret. What she dreaded most aside from the fact that a person she had appreciated to a certain degree was dead, was that Irina's demise could lead to Igor's dismissal from office. She knew he wasn't ready to leave the diplomatic service yet.

There was also another aspect of Igor's theory about Irina's death that made her nervous. If she hated something it was uncertainty and the idea that a member of her own family could be responsible for the mess made her sick. Her husband's legacy was already at stake because Patrick had been arrested for murder. The law practise would be finished, if something like this happened again.

With rising discomfort she looked at the business card on the table. She ran her finger tips over the engraved name and silently cursed the person behind the characters.

When she heard his footsteps on the staircase, she looked up. He appeared in the doorway, visibly bleary and not in a good mood. The mobile in his hand told her what woke him up.

"I'm afraid there's no time for breakfast," he said as he shoved the mobile into the pocket of his navy bathrobe she had given him many years ago for Christmas.

"I had no intention of serving breakfast," she quipped, but the grin froze on her face when she saw how serious he was. "What happened?"

"Call your granddaughter."

"Mary? Why?"

"I'm afraid our problem develops into a major catastrophe. The man I sent to her to discuss the details of Irina's murder is dead."

Violet swallowed. "What? Why?"

"I don't know. They found his body in his car earlier this morning."

"Was he alone?" Cold fear spread within her chest. If something had happened to Mary because of her...

"According to my contacts yes. The embassy has already taken care of the body before the police could get hold of him"

As quickly as her hip allowed it, Violet got her feet to look for her handbag. She hated her mobile phone with passion, even though she had to acknowledge that in times of need the device came in handy.

* * *

As always Charles Carson and Elsie Hughes were the first ones to start the working day at the office. It had become some kind of habit for them to share a first cup of coffee in 'Tom's diner', a small breakfast bar near the office. Charles enjoyed starting his day with Elsie Hughes's company. She made him smile, even when he was angry.

"My, my, you're early," she greeted him when she slipped on the seat opposite him. As always she looked fresh and energetic, which was more than he could say for himself. He had spent his night tossing and turning and the cold shower at six o'clock didn't help to oust his bad forebodings.

"My night ended early," he admitted.

"You have to get used to him, you know," Elsie said after she had ordered a coffee and a sandwich.

"I don't see how this know-it-all can help to rebuild the form's reputation."

"Well, you have to give him a chance." Elsie gave him a smile. "He has gained a lot of experience over the last couple of years."

Charles scoffed. "So, have I and so has Mary."

"Well, I agree about you," she said, "But Mary's only got to blame herself. If she hadn't shagged that…" Charles raised his hand, interrupting her. Elsie crooked her eyebrow. Mary was the apple of Charles Carson's eye and every time they talked about her, they ended up in an argument.

"She got betrayed," Charles said. "It happens to the best of us and it wasn't fair to drag her into the mud for it."

"Whatever." The waitress served Elsie's breakfast and Charles ordered a second coffee. He needed all the energy he could get.

"All I'm saying is that Matthew Crawley is no saint and has been around himself. May I remind you about his dead girlfriend in Oxford?"

Elsie nodded. "I know, I know. Let's face it, we all have been around the block a few times."

"I'm certainly not!"

She laughed when she saw the indignant expression on his face. "Even you, my dear Charles and I admit I would love to know more of your dark secrets."

"You first!" He felt how his face had turned red and he was glad the waitress approached their table to serve his coffee. The last thing he wanted was to give away more of his emotional life to Elsie Hughes than he wanted. Some things were just too personal, too endangering to share them.

* * *

Richard Clarkson was an early riser and since he lived close to the office, he was often the first one to arrive. It could have been a completely ordinary morning, if he hadn't entered Isobel's office to return some medical files to her desk. Her office was usually tidy, but he had learned that the devil is always in the detail. First he noticed the two empty wine glasses next to her screen and then a certain piece of clothing that peeped out from under her desk. He bent down to pick it up. It was a burgundy coloured tie, exactly the one he had seen around Dickie Merton's neck the evening before. So much for her hard work! What did she see in this boring literature professor? Not only was he married, his wife was also one of her patients. He knew she had transferred Ada Merton to another doctor, but that didn't reduce the ethical issue of the case. It was utterly wrong of her to use their common office for a roll in the hay!

He looked disgusted at the tie and placed it all over her keyboard.

"Good morning!"

He jerked around when he heard Isobel's voice. Since when did she arrive so early? She stood in the doorway, a coffee-to-go in her hand and he had to admit she had never looked so beautiful before - at least not in his eyes. There was a glow about her that made his heart skip a beat. Then he remembered he wasn't the one who was the reason for her sparkle and his facial expression darkened.

"Did you have a good sleep?" he asked sourly. "I didn't expect you this early."

"I have a lot to do," she said as she took off her coat.

"Well, your work is on your desk," he said. "Oh and one more thing... "

"Yes?" she asked puzzled. "Discretion is not a sin and some professional courtesy never goes amiss."

"But what..."

On his way out he slammed the door, leaving her behind. Puzzled by Richard's behaviour she looked on her desk. When her eyes fell on Dickie's tie, the reason for his coldness dawned on her and she drew a deep breath.

In her bag her mobile phone was whistling. It was the signal she had installed for calls and messages from Dickie. He wasn't someone who used modern communication devices often and so she was eager to see what was going on. His message made her completely forget about Clarkson's boisterious exit.

_I miss you. Lunch at one in Covent Garden?_

She bit her lip and quickly typed her response.

_Miss you too. Found your tie in my office. ;-) Same as always?_

_Yes. I cannot wait. Love, D._

She knew she had no right to feel this blissful, but she did and she had decided to savour every minute of it. She gently squeezed Dickie's tie between her fingers and put it in her bag. It wouldn't be too long before she could return it.

* * *

Mary entered Tom's diner shortly after nine o'clock. She felt as if a train had hit her. She hadn't slept a wink and while she was under the shower to wash of the chaos of the previous night, her grandmother had called her, utterly upset, because the news about Kemal Pamuk's death had already reached her. At least she could ease Violet's worries about her safety, but now she was facing an emergency meeting in her grandmother's house around lunch time.

Mary ordered a double espresso and stared at the news screen at the wall. A blonde, female reporter was standing at the River Thames and behind her a car was lifted out of the water. It was Pamuk's car, but, of course, he wasn't in it - at least not anymore. The Russian embassy had taken care of everything and now the press and the Met were wondering what was going on. Pamuk's mobile was in her handbag - dead as his owner, because he had turned it off, before they had gone to her apartment. She had decided not to turn it over to the Russians. It was just an inkling, but she wanted to follow it.

"May I join you?"

Mary looked up and was surprised and a bit dismayed to see Matthew.

"Of course."

"Thank you."

He looked as if he hadn't slept any more than she had she thought when she watched him discreetly while he looked around.

"I'm glad to see that nothing has changed around here," he said. "Everyone's still coming here for their first coffee."

"It's still the best coffee in town," Mary said. "But they recently added soya latte to the menu."

Silence fell between them and when he couldn't take it anymore Matthew straightened his back. "Listen, Mary…."

"We are okay," she cut him off.

"Are we?" He asked surprised.

She nodded. "I know I wasn't a good sport yesterday, but I'm a woman, not a saint. Dad quite steamrolled me with his decision to bring you back. I had no time to get used to the idea."

He smirked. "He steamrolled me as well. I really want this to work out, you know. I want to help Robert - and you."

"Thank you. I want to help him, too."

"So, we're friends again?" he asked hopefully.

"I'm not sure we will be good at that," Mary admitted. "But I guess we could try to be good co workers."

Again their conversation faded into silence. Tom, the owner of the café approached their table and served the coffee. He was about Mary's age, Irish, and always in a good mood.

"Good morning, folks. It's been some time!"

"It is indeed," Matthew said. "But it's good to see some things never change."

"Well, we now serve soya latte," Tom said. "Care to try?"

"Not really," Matthew and Mary answered unisono.

"Well, then enjoy the coffee," Tom said and withdrew again.

"Co workers then," Matthew repeated Mary's words before Tom had interrupted them.

"Yes. We've been worse and I…"

"Please, go on."

"I don't want us to be like that again."

"Me neither."

He stretched out his hand and Mary shook it. It was the beginning of a new chapter in their relationship and this time, Mary hoped, it wouldn't end with someone being dead.

*****tbc******


	4. Mack the Knife

Gladys Denker was standing in the kitchen, her ear was pressed against the door, leading to the living room. Driven by lethal desperation she tried to understand what was being discussed inside, but the wooden slide door was thick and the small group on the other side knew how to soften their voices.

Gladys was used to her boss's strange range of acquaintances. Artists, old friends, and obnoxious, rich charity ladies were regular visitors in this house, the Russian guy being the most exotic one of them all. He was whom she secretly called 'The savage'. Every time he was around there was a mess in the house and the smell of cold, Turkish tobacco hung in the curtains and the furniture. Of course, she tried to be discreet about it, but since the man was the opposite of discretion ignoring his presence wasn't easy.

How she would love to find out what this meeting inside was all about! All she knew so far was that Mrs Crawley was in a bad mood and the Russian constantly talking on his mobile phone - speaking Russian. Half an hour ago Mary Crawley, the uppity bitch, and her assistant Anna Smith had arrived.

Gladys had served coffee and sandwiches, but the silence while she was in the room had spoken volumes. Whatever it was that had caused this meeting was extremely important and top secret. These days everything that was labeled top secret was a threat to the family's finances and when there was trouble with money, Gladys had to fear for her job. The last thing she wanted was to be replaced by some low- paid cleaning help!

Annoyed Gladys pressed her ear once more against the door and intensified her effort to get to the bottom of the Crawley families latest crisis.

* * *

Charles Carson sighed when he returned to his desk from his early lunch break and found a pile of mail on it. Elsie Hughes who noticed his exasperated expression when she passed his open door smiled at him. "Don't worry, I've already sorted it for you. The mailman overlooked them when he came by the first time around."

"Thanks," he said and sank into his massive leather chair. Where would he be without Elsie? Sometimes she was the only one in this office who seemed to notice how unsatisfied he was. After the scandal around Patrick Crawley he had silently hoped to finally become a partner in the solicitor's office. He had worked his way to the top and he had the money to afford it, but Robert Crawley hadn't even considered him. Charles liked Robert, but sometimes he thought him too daft for his own good. Robert Crawley thought only someone who had studied in Oxford was worthy to write his name over the office door.

He checked the mail and realized there was really nothing that needed his special attention. Just one letter stood out. It was addressed with 'confidential' and, of course, Elsie hadn't opened it. There was no postmark or sender, which he always found unsettling. If he found the outer state of the letter strange, the contents stunned him. It was a collection of photographs printed on cheap photographic paper. Some of them were blurry, others disgustingly explicit - and so was the additional letter. Before he opened it he quickly shut the door to his office.

_50.000 £ or they go public. More to follow. No coppers._

Again no sender, no other hint. Cold sweat appeared on his forehead and he felt how his chest tightened. He reached inside the drawer where he kept his emergency medicine.

The past was indeed never dead. It was not even past, he thought as he leaned back, wondering what to do next.

Outside his office Elsie stared at the door. Her worse fear was now confirmed. The spooked expression on his face when he shut the door was all she needed to know that something bad was happening. Since when did he close the door on her? She always thought if he trusted someone, it was her...

* * *

When Isobel arrived for their lunch date Dickie was already waiting for her. The restaurant near Covent Garden was small, but the food was French, superb, and the establishment rarely frequented by tourists.

He rose when he saw her and greeted her with a kiss on the cheek.

"I hope you weren't waiting for too long!" She said after she had sat down.

"Oh no, don't worry." He showed her his mobile phone. "I just had a call from Ada's doctor."

"And?"

"He's not very optimistic. Her latest breakdown was the worst so far and he doubts she will sufficiently recover from it. He suggests she stays at the facility for the time being."

"I'm sorry." She truly was. She knew the effect schizophrenia had not only on the patient, but on the whole family. Like every mental health issue it had the power to destroy family bonds and relationships as a whole.

Dickie shrugged. "I guess it was bound to happen sooner or later. I fear the boys will take it badly. They still hope she will come back home soon."

Isobel sighed. Dickie's relationship with his sons had been strained for years, if not decades. Ada, an overbearing mother, had made sure from an early age that her sons never developed a close relationship with their father. The fact that Dickie often stayed in Oxford or abroad for various lectures and projects hadn't helped to establish any close bond with his sons.

"Sooner or later they will understand," Isobel tried to comfort him. "They won't have any other choice."

Dickie cracked a smile. "Your sense of logic is always refreshing."

The waiter arrived with the menus and Dickie ordered a bottle of her favourite white wine.

"What's the occasion?" Isobel asked surprised.

"I wanted to ask you something," Dickie said and pulled out his phone again. "Look at this."

Isobel looked at the screen and raised her eyebrows. "The weather forecast for Oxford?"

"It looks like it's going to be a sunny spring weekend. Care to join me? I'm invited to hold a guest lecture on Saturday morning. After that I'm free. We could spend the weekend and return to London on Sunday evening."

"We haven't done this before," Isobel said perplexed.

"And I think it's time we spend more time together… preferably not in your office."

"Oh, I agree." She remembered the dreadful experience with Richard Clarkson earlier. There was no one to blame but herself and she still wished she had cleaned the room more thoroughly after Dickie had left. Her apartment was off limits until Matthew had found a place of his own and Dickie's youngest son was still living at his house in Hackney. Both of his sons were unaware of their relationship and she and Dickie had agreed to keep it a secret as long as possible.

"So, what do you say? We would finally have some time for each other."

She smiled at Dickie. He was so sweet and keen while her enthusiasm to go to Oxford was limited.

"I like Oxford and it's been ages, but…"

"What is it?"

"The last time I went to Oxford was for a funeral," she explained. "It was quite a sad day."

"I see…"

She saw the disappointment on his face though he tried to hide it. She leaned forward and placed her hand on his. "It was almost eight years ago. Lavinia was Matthew's fiance. She died in a horrible car accident."

"I had no idea!"

"Yes, it was… horrific. Lavinia was such a sweet girl… so pretty, so kind." She smiled pensively while she tried to remember the young woman's face. To her dismay she had to realize that she had forgotten some of her features as well as the sound of her voice. How unkind time could be when it came to memories.

"Is that the reason Matthw hasn't married yet?" Dickie asked.

Isobel's answer was a shrug. "That's a complicated matter. To be honest, I'm not sure he truly wanted to marry Lavinia. The accident happened after an argument she had with Matthew at a party. She ran off and that was the last time Matthew saw her. The police said they had found cocaine in her car and in her bloodstream. Her father was completely devastated. I took her death rather hard. He never moved away from Oxford and lives completely isolated as far as I know." She shook her head. Reggie Swire was a man she had never truly understood and his daughter's untimely demise had made him all the more peculiar.

"All right. I see my idea is not one of my best. Why don't we settle for another trip the other weekend? I could ..."

"No, no! I think we should go to Oxford. It's time to make some new memories."

"Are you sure?"

"I am," she answered and squeezed his hand. A weekend away was just what she needed and Oxford wasn't so small that she risked running into Reggie Swire.

* * *

"So what exactly are we supposed to do?" Mary looked around one and her eyes came to rest on Igor Kuragin. Until today the man had been a stranger to her, an enigma, and after their acquaintance she doubted that would change. The first time she had laid her eyes on him was at a big garden party when her grandfather was still alive. Kuragin had been a loyal client to the solicitor's office for decades and that was all she knew about him. Her grandfather had been dead for over ten years now and most of his clients had been inherited by Robert. The name Kuragin was not one that was mentioned too often though. Robert was wary about connections to Russia in the present political climate and avoided closer contact. Why her grandmother of all people was the one who had obviously stayed in contact with the Russian ambassador was something Mary didn't really want to know. She had the inkling that asking this question was too embarrassing for Violet to be answered in all honesty.

"I need you to prove who killed my wife," Kuragin answered. "I owe it to her."

Mary nodded slowly. "I understand that. So I take it you know who killed her?"

"I know who's responsible for her death." Kuragin and Violet exchanged a glance. "Irina's murder was ordered by James Crawley and or his son Patrick Crawley."

Anna who stood near the window gasped and Mary swallowed, but she was a professional and quickly recovered from the shock."Why on earth should one of them be responsible for your wife's murder? What's the connection?"

"For many years I helped James Crawley to do business in Russia. I introduced him to the right people in the right places, made sure he got the invitations for dinner parties and so on. He's the one of the few members of your family who isn't a lawyer. He went into business and in the early nineties he was one of the first who realized how much financial potential was behind the iron curtain."

"And that was all you did?"

Kuragin nodded. "Politicians, oligarchs, business people. I only made the introductions."

"Of course."

Mary wondered if he ever received financial adjustment for his generous efforts, but she decided to reserve that question for later.

"But last summer James started to become greedy. He wanted my help to launder money he had made in Russia to avoid paying taxes. My answer was that he was asking one favour too many. I'm afraid he didn't take my rejection of his proposal too well.

"And you think he killed Irina for revenge?"

Kuragin shrugged. "I think he wanted to convince me to change my mind, but then his son got arrested for murder. I doubt that was part of the plan."

"Can you provide me with any evidence?" Mary asked.

Violet cleared her throat and placed a business card on the table. Mary crooked her eyebrow. "That's a card from James."

"It was among Irina's possession," Kuragin explained. "On the back of the card you'll find an address. The apartment belongs to James."

Mary didn't understand. "You think he left it on purpose?"

"No. It was hidden in Irina's jewellery box. I think James and Irina had some kind of connection."

"So, there's my place to start. We will need an investigator to handle this."

Mary looked at Anna who nodded. "I think I know the person for the job." Mary replied with a knowing smile.

"Is he trustworthy?" Igor asked.

"Better," Mary answered. "He owes us."

"And one more thing…" Suddenly Kuragin seemed solemn. "About the dead Mister Pamuk… He's the son of a friend of mine."

"He died of natural causes," Mary said, but she felt how the blood was drained out of her cheeks. "I can assure you of that."

Igor nodded. "I know he had a heart failure as a child. I don't want to lie to his parents."

"You won't have to." Mary broke off the eye contact, picked up her purse, and turned to Anna. "We have to go."

She placed a kiss on Violet's cheek. "I'll talk to you later."

"Take care of you!" Violet said and gently caressed her granddaughter's cheek."It seems too many people are dying these days."

* * *

James Crawley stood in his office in one of the upper levels of the London Shard and looked upon the city as if it were his kingdom. In the background the song 'Mack The Knife' performed by Frank Sinatra (there was only one Frank after all) filled the big, white room. The line that always got to him was ' _There's a cement bag's dropping down. That cement's just for the weight, dear…'_

He knew that didn't happen to the young man they fished out of the Thames this morning. He had recognized the face instantly when the news had popped up all across the country's morning news. Kemal Pamuk had been a close associate of Igor Kuragin. One the Russian only trusted with his most delicate missions. James wasn't responsible for his death, so who was and what would the Russians do next?

In retrospect Irina's death was most unfortunate. James feared he had started a war that would turn out to be a mistake. But how could he know his stupid son had taken matters into his own hands when he silenced another accomplice?

James turned off the music and picked up the phone. He needed to talk to Igor Kuragin.

*******tbc*******


	5. Butterfly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Violet & Isobel meet for a drink, Mary & Matthew connect over a glass of whiskey,Elsie discovers her inner Miss Marple and makes an unsettling discovery...

Violet shook her wet umbrella and rang at Isobel's door. Every Thursday evening the two of them met for a drink. The habit had been born many years ago during a rainy night the long London winter months and neither of them wanted to miss it. Most of the time Isobel went to Violet's house, but this time it was Violet who had taken a cab to Isobel's home near Earl's Court Station. After the exhausting meeting with Mary and Igor Violet needed an evening away from her own four walls. Igor had left in the afternoon after he had answered a mysterious phone call that had left him rather upset. As it was his modus operandi he hadn't confided in her about its contents, but the coldness in his voice had left no doubt about the seriousness of the subject of the short conversation.

"You don't look like someone who's happy with themselves," Isobel unnecessarily commented when Violet entered the apartment whose furniture was too white for Violet's taste.

"Don't you dare profiling me," Violet snapped back. "I'm here for a drink not for a consultation."

"You can't afford me anyway."

Violet registered Isobel's good mood and the radiating glow that surrounded her with amused annoyance.

"A wild guess…" Violet smirked after she had disposed of her umbrella. "Your love life is back on track due to Mrs Grey's recent hospitalisation?"

"How do you know that?" Isobel asked her eyebrows raised in suspicion.

"Talking drums. I had a call from one of her boring friends. Myrtle Crosby's upset, because Dickie's telling nothing to anyone… She fears he's locked her up and threw away the key."

Isobel rolled her eyes. "It's no one else's business. I wish people had more decency!" She turned her back on Violet and opened her fridge. She took out grapes, basil, mint leaves, vodka, and some other ingredients that aroused Violet's instant suspicion.

"But he's obviously made it your business," Violet said while her eyes followed Isobel's every move while she put everything in the shaker. "What on earth are you doing there? You look like a druid making up a new concoction!"

"It's a cocktail called 'Butterfly'," Isobel explained patiently. "Matthew's told me about it."

"And you want to make me your guinea pig, before you taste it yourself?"

Isobel shrugged with a wide grin spread all over her face. "And I thought you like vodka and all things sour."

"Touché."

"How's your Russian prince?"

"Busy."

"Did he finally tell you what happened to his wife?"

With a heavy sigh Violet moved herself on the barstool to buy some time. The question was inevitable, but that didn't mean it was easy to answer.

"Igor has a suspicion," she admitted. "But I'm not sure what to make of it."

"What suspicion?" The sound of clanking ice cubes filled the kitchen.

Violet gave Isobel a quick, hesitating glance. "I promise I won't tell anyone."

"Not even Matthew?"

Isobel shook her head. "I barely see him these days. He's always in the office."

"That wasn't my question."

With a roll of her eyes Isobel solemnly raised her hand. "On my mother's grave."

"Well, I didn't know your mother, but I take what I can get." She drew a deep breath. "Last night Igor told me Irina was strangled to death. They found her in her bedroom. Nothing was stolen, no prints, no dna, no nothing and the cctv was conveniently out of order that night."

"Is that even possible these days?" Isobel wondered.

Violet shrugged. "Apparently the killer was a ghost. The only clue Igor found a few days later was a business card with a name."

"What name?"

"James Crawley."

Isobel almost dropped the cocktail shaker and gasped. "James? The James Crawley?" The last time Isobel had met James Crawley was at a birthday party two years ago that she would rather forget about. James's reputation as a skirt chaser was legendary and Isobel had experienced his groping first hand.

"The one and only," Violet confirmed. "I'm not sure what to make of it, but I certainly wouldn't put it past him to kill someone."

"Did they even know each other?" Isobel wondered.

"According to Igor yes. He's also certain Irina had a secret lover somewhere here in town."

"But why would James kill her when they were in love?"

"Don't be so daft! Not everyone who's making love is in love!"

Isobel's mouth twitched. "I'm aware of that."

"Igor thinks it was meant as a warning or an argument that went too far. Apparently James is involved in some dubious business deals in Russia and had asked for Igor's help."

"Which he denied him…?"

"Of course." Violet's answer was brisk but Isobel had her doubts about Igor's innocence. In her experience every politician was corruptible. "So what's next?" she asked.

"I asked Mary to look into it," Violet answered.

"Is that wise?" Isobel asked worried. "It could be dangerous."

"I'm aware of that. But she's the one I trust."

"You mean she's the one who has the guts."

Violet smirked and decided to change the subject. "So, how's Dickie? Has he filed for divorce yet?"

This time Isobel hesitated with her answer. As if she had all the time in the world she served their drink and garnished them with leaves of mint.

"Not yet. But we are going to Oxford for the weekend."

Violet grinned. "They say Oxford is the English Venice. How romantic!"

"Very funny."

Then Violet remembered something and her grin faded. "Wait… Oxford…? Are you sure you want to go there?"

"Why not?" Isobel asked, absolutely aware of what Violet was hinting at. Laviana Swire's timely death and its consequences had been the subject of many of their Thursday evenings.

Violet turned the untouched drink in her hand. "Reggie Swire is still living there, isn't he?"

"As far as I know yes."

"What if you run into him?"

"We'll see… who says we're going to spend much time out and about?"

Violet countered the idea with a pretended shutter. "I hope your old professor's health can sustain your expectations!"

"I can assure you, he has every ability!" Isobel answered and raised her glass for a toast.

* * *

Mary took off her reading glasses and rubbed her tired eyes. She looked at her Cartier watch and realized it was already half past eight. Time to go home. She longed for a hot bath and a drink. Sure she was the last person in the office, she leaned back. For the last couple of hours she had read every file about the Kuragin family she had found in their archives. The ties between the Crawley family and the Kuragins were stronger than she had expected and went back a long way. Her grandfather and Igor Kuragin had been through a lot together and the fact that her grandmother had a close connection to Kuragin made it all the more peculiar and questionable. Would Violet really entertain a love affair with a close friend of her husband? It seemed hard to believe, but Mary knew Violet well enough not to put anything past her.

"And I thought I was the last person around here."

Matthew stood in the doorframe and smiled at her. She returned the smile and said, "I dare say you didn't." She pointed at the bottle of whiskey and the two glasses in his hands.

He grinned and shrugged. "Excellent observation!"

"It's what people pay me for," Mary replied and offered him the seat in front of her desk.

"I heard as much."

He let his eyes travel across her desk. Photos and notes were spread all over it. One copy was from the Daily Mail and showed the face of the young and very dead Kemal Pamuk. Curiously he picked it up and looked at it.

"Isn't that the guy I saw you with in the bar? His face was plastered all over the news today."

Mary blushed. There was no use of lying. "He was. Kemal Pamuk. Turns out he was the friend of a… family friend."

Matthew crooked his eyebrow. Mary could tell he was not satisfied with her scarce explanation. "I see."

"He's the son of a friend of Violet's."

"What did he die of?"

"That's what they want to know. I promised to use my contacts to the police to find out more… Granny's friend is the Russian ambassador, you see. He doesn't want to ask too many questions, so he asked me to do it."

With relief Mary noticed how Matthew's shoulders relaxed. "Friends in high places."

"Something like that."

"I have to get used to all of it."

"You will. We've been known as problem solvers until one of us became the problem."

Matthew chuckled. "How well do you know Patrick?"

Mary shrugged. "He's the cousin you don't want to meet for Christmas, because he pulls your tails and puts salt over your pudding."

"Do you think he's guilty?"

"I'm sure he's guilty as hell of all sorts of things."

Matthew opened the bottle and poured out two large drinks. "To friends in high places."

Mary smiled and gulped down the whiskey. At first it burned down her throat before it entered her stomach like a soothing balm. She didn't have dinner yet and only realized now how hungry she was.

"What's your first case?" Mary asked.

"I'm not sure yet," Matthew said. "Robert's a bit opaque about a new client he wants me to meet."

"Dad and opaque?" Mary wondered. "Are you sure we're talking about the same Robert Crawley?"

"He's not as dull as you think he is," Matthew countered amused.

"My mother claims the same, but we don't see eye to eye very often."

Matthew laughed when he thought about his discussions with his own mother. "I know the feeling."

"So, shall we stay here or do we go out and have dinner?" Mary asked. "One more of these and I'm not going to find the way back to my apartment."

"Dinner sounds fine to me…." He rose. This was going better than he had hoped for when he had found bottle of whiskey in Patrick's hidden compartment behind his desk! There was still a tuned out voice in his head that told him to take it slowly with Mary, but he decided not to listen to it. If this evening was a success he would send Patrick Crawley a thank you note before he went to prison for the next twenty five years.

* * *

Elsie Hughes waited patiently for Mary and Matthew to leave the office, before she left her hiding place in the office kitchen and sneaked into Charles Carson's office. If she wanted to find out what was going on with him she had to do some serious snooping! The mysterious envelope had not only worried him, it also worried her. Charles was always cold as a cucumber but this evening he had left the office like a killer who fled a murder scene. His obvious distress was reason enough for her to get to the bottom of his sorrow as quickly as possible.

Everything important was always locked up in a small safe that was hidden in his desk. He had never told her the combination but she had looked over his shoulder too many times not to know it. She had never broken his trust, nor had she disregarded his privacy, but desperate times demanded desperate measures.

The combination was 1 - 0 - 2 - 5. She had often wondered if it was a birthday or some other kind of important date for him, but important was that he hadn't changed it.

The door opened as if by magic and revealed files, a bit of money and deeply hidden underneath it all, the infamous envelope. The mysterious corpus delicti. Her hands shook when she opened it and emptied the contents. Under the light of his old fashioned lamp she looked at the incriminating photographs and the note of blackmail. The photos showed a woman Elsie had never met, but her face was too well known not to recognize her. She used to smile at her from the cover of every magazine and newspaper. She wasn't one of those it-girl, she was so much more. The woman was what people called an icon. An institution. She was not only a member of the Royal Family, she was the embodiment of grace. A social butterfly and charity goddess.

But how did Charles Carson know her and why did anyone send nudes of her to him? Did Charles Carson have a life she knew nothing about? She used to think of him as a workaholic who spent his evenings with his remote control and a glass of whiskey.

Elsie shook her head, flabbergasted and at loss what to do next.

* * *

Edith Crawley stood across the restaurant called "Italian Butterfly" and smoked a cigarette. She watched Mary and Matthew through the bid window eating and chatting like they used to when they were all students in Oxford. So much time had passed since then and yet nothing had changed. No matter what Mary did she always ended up on top. This time was different though. Her phone vibrated in her coat and she took it out.

" _Identity of Pamuk confirmed."_ Edith raised her eyebrows. Her contact had just confirmed that Mary and the late Kemal Pamuk had left a bar together only hours before he had been found dead. Even if Pamuk died of natural causes this was huge. Pamuk had worked for the Russian ambassador whose wife had been killed weeks ago and now he was dead as well and Mary was involved in this somehow. Of course the right thing would be to talk to her sister to gain more information, but Edith also had a deadline and Mary was busy preying on her next victim. She wouldn't talk to her anyway. Just like the rest of her family Mary looked down on Edith for choosing another career path. The Crawleys as a whole didn't like the press, but Edith didn't care. She had found her path. The news was the turf where she felt valuable and it was what she was good at.

Poor Matthew. He would never learn not to fall for the next best social butterfly.

*****tbc*****


End file.
